The First Number
by Belka
Summary: In his previous life Finch had never been late for anything... AU, pre-series "what if" story, possible OOC.


_**It's me and my new story, quite a big oneshot this time **_

_**I can't express how much I'm grateful to Adela Nightmoon for being my beta. Her help is really priceless **_

_**Note: Finch's alias and the name of the company I took from episode 3 "Mission Creep".**_

**ooo**

In his previous life - he had another name then - Finch had never been late for anything. In his new life, the first time he'd been late happened was the day his business partner died - the one of eight people in the world who knew about the Machine. Too late, Finch realised that he'd been in danger and hadn't managed to save him.

After that, Finch was too late for everybody's grieving. He was _away_, when the police and paramedics arrived at the scene of the accident and found two bodies. He was _away_ when the newspapers were full of the details of his partner's death and colorful obituaries. He was _away_ during the funeral and reading of the last will - he was unconscious after the hours-long spinal fusion surgery and after that he spent months learning to live in a human form again, learning to master his own body. It was the time Finch became Finch: his real name erased with his previous life.

He only visited the cemetery once, in the evening, when the city had already been veiled with smoky-blue twilight; one dead man visiting another. Finch was neither superstitious nor sentimental, he didn't expect any revelations, he just stood there watching the grave, surrounded by the endless silence of gravestones.

**ooo**

In his previous life Finch was absolutely positive that an unassuming existence was the most comfortable kind of existence; to not attract anyone's attention, to be humble - a minnow, a underling - that was his strategy. But after coming back to the world of living Finch realized that being indiscernible was not enough for him. He had many names, numerous personalities, multiple hide-outs; but now he was not only a leaf on a tree in a thick forest, not only a pebble on a seashore... instead of just being an unremarkable person in the world, Finch became someone who was just one face among many of the same person. Now his face belonged to an office clerk, a software engineer, a lawyer... He was all his personalities and yet he wasn't any of them - that was the only way for him to feel secure now.

Computers had always been much more comfortable and safe company than any human for Finch. He was much more accustomed to hollow, empty rooms and halls; to the darkness, hiding in every corner of a building, and to the constant buzz of electronics, than to the noise of the city and the endless flow of faces.

Glowing monitors looked like apartment block windows in the night; Finch was in one of his apartments. His chair was surrounded with cardboard boxes stuffed with belongings from his late business-partner's office. Finch had taken them in the late evening, when the office building was almost deserted. He had virtually stolen them, if taking several dusty boxes with bits and pieces could be considered stealing. These boxes were packed with useless things - leaflets, promo-cards, outdated invitations for various meetings and other paper trifles, which had neither value, nor sense to anybody.

One box contained old day-planners. Even with being a head of multi-billion software company, Finch's partner hadn't left his scholarly habit of duplicating important information on paper. Old habits die hard.

Finch picked up a random day planner, one of those on the top. 2007.

His eyes absentmindedly skimmed over the lines, his hand slowly, almost automatically, flipped through the pages.

Strange things were these day planners. They were supposed to contain everything important in a human life: meetings, birthdays, dates, names, business trips, plans... and they do. But that's not everything in a human's life, they don't contain the essence of the person. There's no personality in them. The individuality of the owner could be seen only in his handwriting - energetic letters, full of long, vivid strokes, almost embedded into the paper.

They said, some people could feel the presence of their late relatives and dear people, even talk to them, just by touching things which had belonged to them. Finch listened, but felt only usual darkness and absence.

He was almost finished looking through the day planner, when his attention was caught by a single page.

There were just several lines on it.

A few nine-digit numbers: three digits - two - four. Social security numbers, all lined through, each had a short note beside: "suicide", "killed at the attempt of a bank robbery", "MIA"...

There was one more SSN at the bottom of this short list, the only one not crossed off, the name - Jean Patton and below, on the next line - a bank account, written down with another ink, but by the same hand.

Inexplicably, as if not believing his eyes, Finch traced the lines with his fingertips, feeling the subtle pattern of handwriting.

He flipped through the day planner from the very beginning once again, but there were no more lists like it.

"He tried to save them," Finch mused aloud.

Since that notable day, when Finch told to his business partner about the "irrelevant" list, they both had understood that their usual existence, their routines, began to show small signs of strain. There were neither reproaches, nor excuses - but they could both feel that fracture.

Finch immediately understood the reason why there were just few numbers on that page and why only one of them was not crossed out: in three days after his partner'd known about the second list, Finch had blocked any access to it for everyone except himself. It was safe, it was right. He'd created his Machine to protect everybody, for common welfare, hadn't he?

Finch should find out everything about this woman, Jean Patton.

… There was not much to be found. Thirty years old, worked as an illustrator of books for children. Obviously, she'd got no luck at first, but she'd got several serious contracts and had some small exhibitions during the last couple years. In mid-2000's she used to seek medical attention quite frequently: bruises, concussions, even some bone fractures: her boyfriend might have beaten her up. But one day she seemed to pluck up enough courage to leave (she possibly did it for her child: by that time she'd given a birth to a baby-boy). The last time the name of her ex-boyfriend was mentioned in criminal news: he'd been charged with breaking and entering.

Finch knew he should find this woman.

What was it? Curiosity? What kind of answers he might find, what kind of questions he didn't dare to ask himself? Finch didn't know. But when the search program found the present address of Ms. Patton, he realized he had to go, he needed to see the only surviving person from the "irrelevant" list.

**ooo**

It was Friday evening and Jean was home alone, her parents had taken their grandson for a three-day trip, so she was going to spend the time drawing illustrations for a volume of French fairy-tales.

It had already started getting dark when she heard the doorbell rang.

A small man in a dark coat and a brief case in his hand was standing on her porch.

Finch had always been very skillful in being discreet; an unremarkable appearance was the best kind of disguise. In his new life it was even more important than hitherto. Nobody could ever remember his face, he had always been 'just a guy wearing glasses', a bit player. He could easily become anyone: a typical 'white collar' worker, a salesman, an IT manager. This time he was wearing the mask of a law office clerk.

"Miss Patton? Ms Jean Patton?"

Might be an insurance agent, she thought.

"I don't need whatever you're going to suggest for me, thank you", she said, speaking with a low, husky voice.

"My name is Mr. Burdett, I'm from _Marmonstein__Ribner_..."

"I can hardly find any reason for you to come to me", the woman noted with a small smile.

Finch hadn't got a clue how his late partner had helped his woman, so he decided to start with common phrases:

"Actually I have some information about your bank account with the Bank of America"...

Something in her facial expression changed slightly and Finch knew he'd chosen the right path.

"Our firm might have informed you beforehand," it was a complete lie, but he always managed to be convincing.

"Come in, please", the woman opened the door wide to let him in. The stranger slowly stepped across the threshold and entered her house. Jean noticed that he was moving like Frankenstein might, like his body was alien to him - heavily dragging his right leg, his spine too rigid.

**ooo**

The pictures hanging on the walls in the living room were definitely drawn by Jean: Finch had seen some of her works on the 'net.

"Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" the tone of her voice was a bit strained.

"Tea would be nice, thank you," Finch kindly lied.

Jean was first to break the silence.

"So - you were talking about my bank account...?"

Finch turned to her.

"Ah, yes, I'm sorry. I was just admiring your artwork, they're lovely. But actually I just needed to inform you that, in our client's last will and testament, he's provided for the regular money transfers to continue. You'll continue to be provided for."

"According to his last will?" She went pale.

"That's right."

"So... he's dead?"

"He died in the accident", Finch replied after a short pause. Jean lowered herself into the armchair and motioned him to sit.

The woman looked almost calm.

"You know," she suddenly said, "He saved my life. I'm not talking about the money though. He literally saved me from dying."

"I beg your pardon?"

She laughed mirthlessly.

"It's me who must apologize, I shouldn't have even brought it up. You just do your job and I... I won't even mention it, okay?"

"On the contrary", mildly objected the stranger. "If this is true, I'd be happy to listen to your story."

"Really?"

"You have my word." This time Finch wasn't lying.

She lowered her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of fair hair.

"There's not much to tell you. I had left my ex after he'd beaten me up for the devil-only-knows-what time and he'd broken two of my ribs. You know, they say, some people are born victims. Perhaps, I am one of them. Or perhaps, I should have left long before, when he'd become violent the first time. But every time it happened, he'd then beg for my forgiveness, and I convinced myself that he hadn't meant anything bad by it, that he hadn't wanted to hurt me, and that the next time it'd be different and everything would be fine. Okay, to be brief, the last time, I just took my son and left. For a while I hadn't heard anything about Frank, my ex, and I thought that he'd decided to leave us alone and had gone somewhere else. For couple of months we lived without any problems, well, if the time when you haven't got a job and any money, but have a little baby, can be called "a cloudless life".

And then_he_came. One day I went to the supermarket to buy some food and diapers. _He_ just came up to me when I was putting the things into the trunk. He said that Frank was going to take my son away from me and - to be sure - to kill me. Sounds delusional, right? Of cause, at first I was frightened, I didn't believe him, but he spoke to me as if he'd known me for ages, as if we'd been acquainted for a long time. I was scared to death, but he convinced me to at least hide my son. So I took him to my parents. When I was on my way home, _he_ called my cell phone. How the hell did could get my number? He said that Frank and his friends had been waiting for me at my place, but he would take care of everything and I just needed to wait till morning. So I spent the night in my car and when I got home, the police were already waiting for me. They said, that some 'good samaritan' had called and reported that some guys had broken into my house. The police were just in time: Frank was charged with trespass, attempted burglary, carrying concealed weapons and resisting arrest. Some time later, when things were quiet again, I received a letter from the bank notifying me about an account being opened in my name. _He_ did it, I know he did. But that's all, after that, I never heard from him again."

Despite her growing paleness, Jean slightly smiled at the end of her story.

"How do you think..." Finch paused briefly, measuring every word of his question. "How did _he_ find you?"

She closed her eyes.

"I haven't got a clue. I didn't even suspect that I was in danger... He just helped. You know, like some superhero: came out of nowhere and went back to nowhere. I haven't spent a nickel of the money he sent me. I just couldn't do that. I oweditto him that I am still alive, but that didn't give me any right to use his money. I'll always remember what could have happened if he hadn't helped me. And that's enough for me, really. I'm just sorry I didn't get a chance to thank him".

Finch cast a quick glance at her, as if considering if he should continue their conversation. They both heard a loud whistle from the kitchen.

"I'll be right back. The kettle is boiling."

She hastily left the room.

He heard a click of a tumbler switch, a brief creak of cupboard hinges and the kettle stopped whistling-.

After that all went silent.

The clatter of a broken cup split the silence. For few minutes Finch sat rigidly, as if he didn't dare move. Then slowly, carefully he got up and went to the kitchen.

Jean stood, bent over the sink, her hand stifling her mouth, desperately trying to suppress her sobbing. The shattered teacup covered the floor.

She cried, forgetting about the whole world. Her body rocked with sobs, endless tears falling into the sudsy water.

Finch watched her, unable to confess to himself that he was excruciatingly, agonizingly envious of her open, candid sorrow.

Jean suddenly remembered that she was not alone at home.

The stranger stood at the door, one hand tightly clutched the doorknob, as if he was struggling with some invisible force, which had brought him here, holding the box of tissues in his other hand. Still silent, he handed the tissues to Jean and took a step back.

She more felt than understood, that he was going to leave.

"Please, stay."

Cautiously, as if he wasn't sure whether he'd interpreted her words properly, the stranger finally made a step into the kitchen space, took a chair and sat down awkwardly.

For several minutes Jean tried to gather herself, crumpling the tissues and smudging tears over her cheeks like a child.

"I knew something was wrong", she said finally, her voice dull and hoarse. "I knew that something bad had happened. He came to see me couple times, you know," - at this moment she thought - for a split second - that she saw a shade of surprise in the stranger's face. "I mean, from time to time I felt that he was somewhere close, watching me. He was like a guardian angel, you know. Though, I might just be wanting to believe that."

She cast a glance at her guest, subconsciously seeking his sympathy, but his face was painfully dispassionate.

"When did it happen?"

"Eight months ago," replied Finch, immediately regretting his honesty.

"Eight months?" the woman looked at Finch as if she saw him for the first time. "Then why...?"

She didn't finish her question, just looked into his face, her mouth slightly open. Finch sat absolutely still, not moving a muscle, as if at gunpoint.

"What was his name?" Jean asked quietly. "You haven't yet mentioned it."

"_Does__it__really__matter__now?__"_ Finch bitterly thought. _"__What__'__s__the__point__in__calling__his__name,__over__and__over__again?__He__'__s__gone__and__it__'__s__all__my__fault__-__the__rest__doesn__'__t__matter...__"_

To call his name meant to cast a spell and evoke a ghost, but a single word rolled over Finch's tongue:

"Ingram."

"Ingram," echoed the woman, tasting the unfamiliar name. "Who was he for you?"

"You're not his lawyer or something..." she paused. "For a lawyer you're too..."

But Finch raised his hand - a half-warning, half-imploring gesture - and Jean didn't finish her statement.

"So who was he to you?"

A fellow student. A colleague. A business partner. An alter-ego. Ingram - joyful, honest, voluble person - he had been everything that Finch hadn't. Charming and imposing - Ingram had always been on the front of the stage, basking in the flashes of cameras and the public eye, while Finch had preferred to stay in the shadows. Ingram had used to sit out the endless sessions of the board, getting awards and wearing perfect suits, whilst the only company Finch had usually had was his Machine and he could afford the luxury of wearing sweatshirts and jeans at work. As against Finch, Ingram would have never had enough working knowledge and patience to build the Machine, but he'd had enough conscience and courage to realize - long before Finch realized - what kind of monster they had created. It was him, Ingram, who'd become a victim of the Machine, a new number in the "irrelevant" list and Finch was aware that in point of fact he had been the target, he had been supposed to be killed.

He didn't want to answer, he should have stopped this mutual torture and left long before, but Jean was watching him; she was craving for his reply.

"Ingram... He was my best friend," slowly, mildly amused by his own sincerity, said Finch, and the sound of his clear, perfectly articulated voice swept over the woman's mind like a high wave.

Jean felt tears pricking her eyes again, a new lump tight in her throat. She didn't need any further explanations.

The stranger was sitting beside her at the table, vacantly staring - his back straight, pale, well-groomed hands outstretched on the tabletop - as if he was trying to hold his ghostly reflection on the shiny dark surface.

Her wet palm hesitantly covered his unmoving hand. Trapped in his own wretched body, Finch uneasily turned to Jean.

This time Jean didn't hide her tears. Her face was red-blotted and puffy, but she bravely held his stare.

Even his glasses with strong myopic lenses could not hide the glossy shine of his unblinking eyes from her, even the warm peachy lamplight over the table could not conceal the overt paleness of his face.

"I could... Could not even... I am so sorry this all happened," useless, common, paltry words, words, which everybody said, falsely or honestly trying to express their sympathy. She told the truth.

"Yes," a short word, like an exhale. "Me too."

They sat wordless for a while, strangers to each other, and the only things they had in common were the grief inside and the silence around them.

"I have to go," Finch said finally, not looking at Jean. Without a word she removed her palm from his hand, for a few more seconds he could feel the warmth of her touch, and they both got to their feet.

Keeping their silence, trying to avoid eye contact, they went into the hall. Jean brought his coat and briefcase and, without saying goodbye, opened the front door for him.

Right behind the porch an autumn night was closing in - a blue-black darkness, scented with rain and dead leaves, a few oily spots of light on the pavements.

Finch tried not to wonder if he'd done the right thing when he had come to this place. He had almost reached the gate, when Jean called out to him:

"Mister Burdett!"

He retraced his steps and reluctantly turned to face her. Leaving the front door open, the woman quickly approached him.

"Thank you for coming... for telling me everything," her eyes seemed dark on her shadowed face.

For a few moments Finch watched her - the expression of his face was unreadable - then he curtly, almost unnoticeably, nodded and went back, into the darkness.


End file.
